


Book I: The Beginning of the End

by stardustnightmares



Series: until kingdom come [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Blood, Blood Magic, M/M, Naive bucky, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sweet Bucky Barnes, Touch-Starved Bucky, Violence, Witches, but he still has cronic pain, steve natasha and sam are a family, the story's dark but also nice and sweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustnightmares/pseuds/stardustnightmares
Summary: Bucky has been on the run for ten years, because while he can’t run from the Spirits, they are inside him, they run through his veins and plague his sleep, he can run from his family, he can become a ghost, become nothing but a shadow roaming the earth, unknown and unnoticed. Because if he doesn’t exist, then his family can’t find him.But one day a boy notices him, and that’s when he begins to exist again. And that is the beginning of the end.or: a fantasy AU where Steve and Bucky go on an adventure to free James of his curse but instad discover a secret that was hidden even from Steve himself and fall in love
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson
Series: until kingdom come [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096652
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. prologue: a villagge called joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the chapter at the end note

On the fourth day of winter Silence arrived as an unwanted guest in the small village of Joy.

Joy used to be filled with life and, admittedly, joy. You could hear the laughter of children chasing each other, their small feet hitting the stone ground, followed by the exasperated voices of their mothers, telling them to be careful. You could hear the voices of the old ladies that used to sit under the peach tree in blossom,  leafless branches dotted with clumps of flowers, both in bloom and still in bud, stretching high, towards the sun, and they used to talk and talk and talk: they talked about their day, and the day of everyone else; they talked about their sons and daughters, their nieces and nephews; they talked about the past and the present, and maybe, only sometimes, even the future. They would talk the day away, until the sun would set and they would have to leave.

The streets were always filled with people, talking and walking, laughing and smiling.

The village was never silent, not even at night, with crickets chirping to no end, the click and chatter of owls that came alive at night, and the wind that walked in the empty streets, singing its song.

It used to smell like peach blossoms, sweet, almost in a sickly way, because Joy’s peach trees were always in bloom, no matter the season.

It smelled like wet grass and pine trees, because it was near the forest.

You could smell the strawberries and, because of the tree at the centre of the city, figs.

Silence, however, wasn’t the first unwanted guest that day.

He came after Dread.

Dread arrived in the afternoon, when you least expect it, when the kids were still laughing and the ladies still talking. When the shy winter sun was high up in the sky, warm and pleasant.

If you’ve never met Dread you won't know what he's like.

Dread sounds like the horrified screams of mothers, looking for their lost children. 

Dread sounds like drowning, but instead of water, they were drowning in their own blood, gushing out of their throats.He sounds like crying children, screaming over their mothers’ lifeless bodies. He sounds like pain, and horror and like blades cutting through flesh. He sounds like fathers and husbands screaming for their families, angry and in pain. 

So much pain.

Dread tastes like metal, hot and wet and very bitter and he smells like fire and smoke, like rusted iron and, ironically, he smells like something sweet, but horrid and sickening.

And when the sun left the sky, replaced by the moon, Dread left too, and that’s when Silence arrived.

Mothers ceased their screaming, children were no longer crying, and everyone, every single one of the people of Joy, had stopped living.

Their cold, lifeless bodies lay on the streets, upon their tick and scarlet blood, staining their clothes.

You could no longer smell pine trees or peach blossoms, nor strawberries or figs, all that was left was the smell of burnt wood, smoke, dead bodies, and blood. 

Too much blood.

And when the sun came up again, a boy in the distance, he couldn’t have been older than eight, black cloak dancing in the wind, dark hair hidden under an even darker hood, watched as snow, white and soft, fell upon the village.

The kids would’ve loved it, he thought, they had been waiting for it since winter had come and he couldn’t help but think what a pretty sight it would’ve been if not for the bodies of the people he had killed.

He looked at the village and he smelled the blood and then he wept, he wept for the people whose lives he had taken away, and he wept for himself and for what he had done

And towering among the ruins that he created he made a choice.

He would run.

Run from his family and what they made him do.

He would never unleash his powers again, he would stay away from other humans, so that the Spirits wouldn’t tempt him; he would let the black poison run through his veins, tainting his blood. He knew the consequences, he knew what would happen if he didn’t give the Spirits what they wanted, but he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t be the reason of all of that pain and misery. Of all of that silence.

He knew his family would hunt him wherever he went, he was theirs, their weapon, and they needed him, wanted him, owned him.

So he would run as fast as the wind, he would be a shadow, unknown and nameless. And he would never give the spirits what they wanted again, he would never use his powers again, that was a promise.

And for ten long years he kept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the chapter: a village get slaughtered and while the slaugtering isn't graphic there are a lot of mentions of blood and of like villagers screming and stuff
> 
> kudos and comments are not only appriciated but LOVED xxx
> 
> This was a SiriusxRemus fic that I had already started posting but then I just didn't feel comfortable wring for Rowling's characters anymore. I loved this story too much to just trow it away so I tweaked it a bit and used it for another fandom, I had only written untill chapter 4 and there weren't many character's moments so it wasn't a problem. I'm still really upset about it but for some reason I just didn't feel comfortable even tho I know my fic wouldn't have earned JK any money idk


	2. the boy who ran (chapter 1)

For ten years he traveled alone, away from the main roads, on dusty and forgotten paths, forgotten by the humans but not by the animals, wild and hungry. (He had scars to prove it.)

He slept in dark deep caves or high upon trees.

He became a shadow, a blur in the corner of your eye.

He never visited villages.

For ten years he hadn’t talked to anyone. He had grunted, and in some truly agonizing moments, he had screamed, his voice raw and hoarse because unused. 

In some moments, deep at night when he couldn’t bear to face the Spirits that awaited him every time sleep took him, he wondered what his voice even sounded like, was it light and sweet, or was it rough and harsh. He hadn’t heard in ten years, the last time he had used it he had been nine and it had been high and childlike because he hadn’t hit puberty yet.

And sometimes he wondered about other things too, things that he shouldn’t think about, things that he knew would only bring him more pain and longing.

He wondered what it felt like to be seen, what it felt like when someone talked to you. He wondered what people talked about and if it was fun, people seemed to love doing that. He hadn’t talked to anyone in so long that he didn’t even know if he remembered all of the words and their meanings.

He sometimes saw people in the woods, talking around a fire, laughing at what someone had said, and he always had to force himself to leave, no matter how curious he was, no matter how much he wanted to see how people interacted with each other, what they said and why the laughed (had he ever laughed before? He couldn’t remember laughing). But it wasn’t safe. He couldn’t stay, he couldn’t watch, he couldn’t linger.

He wondered what it felt like when someone touched you, skin upon skin. Was it delicate and sweet? Was it comforting? 

He saw people touching each other: holding hands, caressing someone else’s cheek; sometimes they would put their arms around each other and squeeze, but not to hurt the other, he realized, it was delicate and people seemed to like it. Once he saw a girl place her lips upon a boy's own lips, her hands cupping his face while his were gently placed on her hips. He had looked away then.

Even when he had been with his family he had never been touched in those gentle ways. He had been kicked and punched and slapped. It had been for his own good, they had said, they needed to teach him how to be strong, how to fight, how to kill.

The people of Joy hadn’t been his first kills after all, they had only been the first sacrifices to the Spirits. To this day he still wonders why he did it, why did he have to kill all those innocent people before deciding to run. He had watched them for days, he had had all of the time in the world to walk away, to run away, but he hadn’t. Instead he had sacrificed them and only after he had decided to run. And for that he could never be forgiven. He would always bring with him those children and women and men, crying and begging and screaming and innocent; all so innocent. He shouldn’t linger on those thoughts anymore, he always told himself, after all that person didn’t exist anymore. He was no one, he had no name, he had no past, no present and no future. He could barely even remember his real name.

The first rule of not existing was that he should never visit any village, it wasn’t safe, because if people noticed him, then he would be something that people saw, and suddenly he was someone, he existed. And if he existed then his family could find him.

But even the most strict of rules can be broken, and that’s why he found himself in Ardglass, a small village at the foot of a mountain, where the air was frosty and the soil almost always frozen. 

However the biting cold was the least of his problems, he almost couldn’t feel it, too focused on the burning of the wound on his chest.

And that’s why he was in Ardglass.

He had tried again and again to heal it himself, that’s what he had done for the past ten years after all, he had always been able to take care of himself, to find his food and water and shelter and to heal his own wounds, but the gash on his chest only seemed to worsen with time. 

So after days of anguish he had made the decision to visit a healer.

And here he was.

He could see villagers walking around the market, talking and laughing, and for a moment he couldn’t move, memories of Joy blending with the present, voices in his head telling him to kill, the dark poison burning his veins.

He wanted to run, to get away from all those people and all of that joy. 

But he didn’t. Instead he walked in the streets and kept his head low. Anxiety flowing through him: it was almost impossible to be invisible when he was wobbling and swaying and faltering, when he couldn’t even hold himself upright. And while being noticed, being seen, terrified him, he couldn't help but enjoy the little touches, the arm of a strong man keeping him upright when he was about to fall, an annoyed look on his face, the torso of a young lady trying to get out of his way, the worry in a young boys face when he asked him if he was alright, if he needed help.

And he wanted to answer, he wanted to smile at him, touched by his kindness and ask him if he could please help him reach the healer’s house. 

But he couldn’t.

So he kept walking, alone and untouched, towards the small house on the outskirts of the village, right under the mountain.

It looked really nice and cozy, he thought. It was small, but pretty, the chimney was on and a soft, gray cloud of smoke was coming out of it.

That’s the moment when he noticed that he was freezing. They were in the midst of winter and the air was cold and ice was covering the streets. He almost couldn’t move his fingers, and he felt as if he took another step his legs would snap off like icicles.

But he kept on walking, because while the air was freezing and every inch of his body was hurting, it was nothing compared to the burning anguish that the wound on his chest was inflicting him.

He wanted to cry and he wanted to scream, because it hurt, 

it hurt, 

it hurt. 

And he was so tired of hurting, so tired of being alone and unknown. Maybe he should just lay down and die, he thought. He would be just a nameless body found on the street. 

He knew it was the fever talking, he hadn’t fought for ten years to stay alive only to give up because of a stupid wound. He had survived far worse things. He couldn’t die and let Spirits go back to his family.

But here he was. Ten feet from the wooden door of a cozy and warm house where he could be gently touched and kindly treated. And he couldn’t do it.

So he closed his eyes and fell to the ground.

And while he entered the world of the Spirits a boy opened the door of the small, cozy house and saw him fall. If it had been a few more minutes the boy would have found him dead, and that would have been the end, but he didn’t, so that was only the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the chapter are really short but with uni I don't have much time for anything


	3. the house at the foot of the mountain (chapter 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the chapter at the end notes

Some would call it chance or luck, others fate or destiny, but regardless of how you want to call it, Steve opened the door the exact moment a dark silhouette hit the ground, black cape swaying in the wind.

When Steve kneeled beside him, he could see the dark blood coming out of his chest, staining the soft white snow. 

And as white as snow was the boy’s face, as if he had been out in the cold for so long that his 

skin and the snow had become one and if it weren’t for the red blush colouring his cheeks and nose, Steve would have believed the boy to be dead.

He rushed inside the house with the stranger in his arms, body as cold as ice, droplets of red blood seeping from the chest wound and falling into white snow as he walked, leaving a trail behind him.

He laid the boy on the bed that was reserved for Sam’s patients, ripping the white shirt open so that he could see the gruesome gash on his chest, covered by bandages that had once been clean and white and soft but that were now seeping with blood. 

The boy’s body remained impossibly still, his face impossibly blank, as if he wasn’t really there, as if he were already dead. 

But Steve could see his chest rising and falling naturally and peacefully; he could hear the boy’s breath coming in and out of his nose easily and regularly; he could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. But even so the boy wouldn’t even twitch, as if his soul had gone to a more peaceful place, leaving the body to fend for itself.

He just laid there, looking like a porcelain doll, a pretty white face with crimson cheeks. He would’ve been beautiful if he weren’t on the brink of death, Steve thought.

He only had to keep the boy alive until Natasha and Sam came back, he told himself, feeling useless, he just had to make sure that when they finally arrived the boy would still be breathing and his heart still beating. 

It only took Natasha and Sam a couple of minutes to get there, but for Steve it felt like an eternity: the face of the stranger had lost the blush that had coloured it only minutes ago, a face that had now passed the stages of being just white and was turning blue. 

But now Steve could finally breathe, because now the boy had a fighting chance: Sam and Natsha were the village guardians, talented witches who would know for sure what potions and healing charms would heal the boy.

Steve felt useless, he wanted to help them, he wanted to save lives, to protect or heal the villagers, but, he pondered, sometimes it was enough to be there for them and their patients, to see the gratitude in their faces and hear the happiness in their voices, sometimes being there with them and for them was enough.

The story of how the three of them became a family, started with snow.

Snow, white and soft and cold, so cold, but also so beautiful. It covered the mountain and the village at its foot, it covered the dusty street and the green pine trees; it covered the roofs of the small houses and some of it even fell down their smoking chimneys.

It may have been been beautiful but the adults would always complain about it and how inconvenient it was: the street vendors couldn’t work, the parents had to buy more clothes or their children would get sick, the animals would die or produce less than they normally would in a spring day, not to mention the crops and how they would wither and die.

The kids, however, only ever saw its beauty, their parents would tell them to stay home, because it was cold and they would get sick, and the majority of them did. Sometimes.

That day, however, some of them did not listen to their parents, three thirteen years olds to be exact, and because of that, they survived the fire.

Natasha had sneaked out of the house because she had wanted to go see Old Man Jack work. 

Old Man Jack was the village Guardian and a healer, he was old and wise and full of knowledge. He had a nice little house at the foot of the mountain but he didn’t live there, he lived at the top of the mountain and it took him two full days to come down to, but once every month he would come to the village to help the sick. Natasha wanted to be him when she grew up, not the healer part neccerealy, but the part where he protected the village from the monsters and demons using his magic. She had to sneak out that day because her parents didn’t know she had magic flowing in her veins and she didn’t know how they would’ve reacted if they had known. It was one thing to accept magic when it came from a stranger who helped sick people, protected the village and who showed his face only once a month, it was another thing completely to find out that your own daughter had it.

But Natasha didn’t care, she loved Old Man Jack and she loved her magic, she loved defending people when they were in danger, when all hope was lost. Maybe, she always thought, if I get good enough I’ll be able to help Steve too, so that he won’t have to be in pain anymore. 

Sam’s reason for snaking out was sadly not as noble as Natasha’s: he had seen the girl sneaking out and he had wanted to follow her and be with her.

The third boy was Steve and the reason he left the house was yet unknown to him, all that he knew was that the forest upon the mountain was calling him. All that he knew was that he could  _ feel  _ nature. He could feel the tree branches growing, reaching out towards the bright sky, towards the warmth of the sun; he could feel their roots stretching down towards the darkness of the soil; he could feel the lymph flowing in them, like blood flowing inside his veins. He could feel the calling of the river, water crushing and rushing and bolting and charging; he could feel flowers blooming and blossoming and growing and prospering. But he could also feel them dying and decaying, crumbling and deteriorating. He could feel  _ everything. _

Nature and him.

Him and nature.

Two separate beings but closely connected, bonded, linked.

Why the three of them weren’t home doesn’t really make a difference, because the matter of the fact is that that morning they weren’t home with their families.

Sam and Natasha were on their way home after having watched Old Man Jack treat a nasty case of fever and Steve was lying on the ground, listening to nature, when suddenly the quiet day was broken by screams, loud and scared and in pain; the light of the sun was beginning to fade, covered by a dark black cloud of smoke; and the west part of the village was engulfed by flames.

Wooden houses were burning, the flames hungry and unstoppable, wild and violent and lawless, they were destroying everything and everyone in their path.

And so the west part of the village burned and continued to burn for the better part of the day, until the smoke wasn’t covering the bright blue afternoon sky, but the black night one, not the bright light of the sun, but the milky one of the moon and the stars.

The west part of the village burned and so did its people.

When the morning sun came up again there was nothing left but black ruins of what had once been the children’s home, of what had once been the children’s family and friends.

The west part of the village had burned to the ground, and took everything leaving the kids with nothing but each other.

For three months they had lived on the streets, hungry and dirty, little creatures left to their own devices, with no money and no place to sleep, left out in the cold to die, unwanted and rejected by everyone. Nobody had the money to care for another kid, especially if it wasn’t theirs to begin with, especially not during a cold winter.

The first month they found a stable to sleep in, there were no animals and it seemed abandoned. It smelled and creaked and snow would come inside from the broken roof followed by gushes of wind. But it was warmer and safer than outside.

They would look out for food that got thrown out: the fat of the pig that no one wanted, a piece of meat that was so hard it was impossible to chew, vegetables and fruits that were now almost completely rotten, moldy bread. Anything. They would eat anything that would quench the hunger, anything that could make their stomachs stop hurting.

One night, during the second month, Steve was waiting inside the old barn for Sam and Natasha to come back, he was supposed to be with them but he could barely move because of his pains: they had started since the moment he was born,his mother had told him, they hadn’t known why he would always cry and when they had realized that he was always in pain Sarah had been inconsolable, sure that her punishment had finally arrived. The knowledge that her son would always be in pain because she had cheated her way into getting what she wanted was unbearable and sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, shame hidden by shadows, Steve’ cries echoing inside the walls of their house, she would wish for her to have never found him so that she wouldn’t have to feel the guilt every time he screamed, everytime he wouldn’t leave the house and go play with rest of the kids because the pain never really went away, because an echo of his pains was always there. 

Sarah had been wrong. The pain wasn’t her punishment, it was simply Steve’s body yearning to go to the place she had stolen him from. Yearning to go back home.

But Steve didn’t know that yet.

So there he was, lying on a bed made of hay, in pain and scared because his friends weren’t back yet, and what if they never came back? What if they had decided to leave him because he was nothing but a burden? What if they had gotten hurt or taken? What if they were already dead?

He was just about to fall asleep when it happened: at first he only heard the creaking of the gate, high and pitchy in the silence of the night. It’s nothing, he told himself, just the wind. There were all sorts of sounds during the night, there was nothing to worry about, he kept trying to reassure himself. Sam and Natasha were just about to come back and then everything would be alright.

But then he heard mumbling and grunting and a few seconds later a big man with wide eyes and even wider shoulders walked into the barn, the light of the moon shining on him and making the bottle in his hand shine. 

Steve curled onto himself, trying not to make a sound at the pain that it caused him, hoping that the man wouldn’t notice him, hoping that the man would just go away.

The man did not go away.

Sam couldn’t stop smiling. It had been a pretty nice evening, at least compared to some of the other evenings that they’ve had. The thought made him feel guilty: Steve wasn’t there with them, he was alone in the barn and he was probably in a lot of pain, and here he was, thinking about how nice the evening had been, thinking about how he didn’t want to go back to the barn yet, how he wanted to stay out just a little more if it meant holding Natasha’s hand, hearing Natasha’s laugh, talking and joking with her.

They were almost at the barn, Natasha had just made a really funny comment, Sam was laughing. 

They were almost at the barn when Sam’ laughter died on his lips, loud screams piercing the air.

Natasha started running.

When they finally got inside everything happened too fast for Sam to realize what was going on: one moment the silhouette of a big man was towering over Steve, a broken bottle in one of his hands while the other was clumsy trying and failing to unfasten his belt, the next moment the man was on the ground, a rake coming out his chest. 

Natasha hadn’t hesitated.

Steve was on the ground, blood running down the two big cuts on his chest: he couldn’t move, he could still feel the weight of the man bodys, the hardness in his pants, his callus hands and his hot breath.

That night Sam tried and tried to heal his wounds with magic and spells but he could do nothing more than stop the bleeding and because of that the scars would always paint Steve' chest, a reminder of that night. 

Natasha and Sam never forgot how helpless they felt that day and promised themselves that they would do anything to never find themselves in that position again, they would never feel so powerless again.

  
  


The fourth was the month Old Man Jack found them.

The fourth was the month the Guardian took them to his home at the foot of the mountain.

The fourth was month they finally got a hot meal, something that tasted good, something that made them smile and almost cry.

The fourth was the month they slept in a real bed without being cold, without shivering.

The fourth was the month they finally got a home and a family.

Natasha made Old Man Jack teach her everything he knew about fighting spells: according to him Natasha was a real prodigy, not only was she the fastest learner he ever had but she was also the smartest and most brilliant apprentice he ever thought. 

Sam asked him to teach him about healing charms: he was already pretty well versed in brewing potions, his parents both had magic in them, he had explained, but were too afraid to use it so they had spent their all life brewing potions because it was the only way to help without exposing their magic. They had told Sam that while having magic was dangerous and he should keep it hidden he also should never be ashamed of it, that it was a gift and that it should always be used to help others. 

Steve on the other hand didn’t have any particular abilities, his magic was weak, and while he managed to learn a few easy healing charms from Old Man Jack he was never really good at it; because of this his job became that of going up the mountain to find the herbs needed for the spells and potions: the forest would always lead him right where he needed to be. And he loved the mountain: he loved getting lost in its woods, he loved discovering new and beautiful places that always took his breath away. He loved the green grass and the even greener leaves; he loved the light blue water of the ponds and the crystal clear ice that covered them in winter. He loved the smell of wild flowers in spring, and that of wet grass and mushrooms in autumn. He loved the colours of the forest and the sounds that it made. There was nothing in the world that he could ever love more than the mountain, nothing more beautiful than its forest.

Steve would sometimes watch them when they trained, how their bodies moved in sync with their magic and couldn’t help but be jealous: while he was learning how to fight and while he was getting really good at it, without magic he would never be able to fight against dark creatures, he would never be able to defend the village from supernatural creatures. What was the point of knowing how to defeat humans in battle when the real enemies weren’t humans? 

The first time Old Man Jack had sent Natasha and Sam on a mission they were 15 and their goal was to defeat a lower creature. Steve had begged him to let him go with them for days, but at the end they had gone without him, leaving him behind with nothing to do but worry about them. And for the first time Steve had realized just how useless to them he was but even worse he realized that he wasn’t even supposed to be with them: Natasha and Sam were the ones always following Old Man jack around, they were the ones he had wanted to train, it was only by pure chance or mistake that he hadn’t died when his house had burned down, it was by pure chance that he had met Natasha and Sam and joined them. 

That was the first day he truly realized that while Natasha and Sam and Old Man Jack were his family he didn’t belong there, he didn’t belong with them.

When Old Man Jack died, leaving them the house and the task of protecting the village.

  
  


Sam worked for hours on the stranger, restlessy and with purpose, he wasn’t going to let him die, he wasn’t going to let the life of such a young boy go to waste. He must’ve been a few years younger than them, he thought, they all still had so much life to live, so many places to visit and so many things to learn. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right for such a young life to end so suddenly, but after all, not fair and not right was something that his family and him knew pretty well.

Unjust and unfair had been their lives, but at least the three of them had found Old Man Jack and each other, they were family, and no matter how hard things could get, they always knew they could count on each other.

Did this boy have a family or was he wandering the world alone? The most probable answer, Sam decided, was the second, because he knew that if he would ever find himself in a situation akin to that of the boy, Steve and Natasha would be there for him, they would carry him on their backs if needed, they wouldn’t let him walk alone to a healer; they would never leave his side.

The only reason why he would ever find himself alone was if they were in worse conditions than him. Or if they were already dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the chapter: bllod and injury, it's implied that a man tried and failed to rape Steve,but it's not graphicand nothing happens, he doesn't even get to open his pants, however this attempt is something that will continue to haunt Steve.
> 
> Comments, kudos and constructuve criticism are appriciated (exept for the attempt rape and steve's pain because those are like my self insert thing so )

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and commets are not only appriciated but loved. contructive criticism is really appriciated! too!


End file.
